


Pena Dourado

by laliquey



Category: Silence (2016)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Fluff, Gen, M/M, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: Five little fics written for the pictures inSomething Nice for Father Garupe.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	Pena Dourado

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Something nice for father Garupe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029589) by [Niibeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niibeth/pseuds/Niibeth). 



> These will make the most sense if you see Niibeth's wonderful renderings at the link above.
> 
> Because Fr. Garupe deserves nice things, she's shown him with ice cream, cutting roses, taking a bath, with a book that isn't the bible, & waking up to find that a dream angel is real.
> 
> The angel can be interpreted as Andrew Henry, Gen. Hux, or whatever Gleeson incarnation you like. ;)

** ICE CREAM **

It was explained to him how it was done, but he still can't believe that salt and ice could make this.

It keeps changing despite his wish to enjoy it slowly: a drip here, now another on the other side. He loves the flat, white sweetness that melts in his mouth and is aware of other colors and kinds, but this is the only one he'll ever want.

Is it pious, to love a thing this much?  
**  
**

**  
** ** FLOWERS **

The details are still as vivid as the night it happened:

His trek up into the hills took far longer than he expected, but the church was easy to find; he smelled roses and an edge of rot in the overgrown courtyard that flanked its side and the tiny rectory was open, just as he was told it would be. Gummy dust coated every surface from disuse, and as tired as he was, he found old candles to light and started to clean.

The lack of welcome heightened his worry that no one in the community would accept their young new priest. He was unsure if he even accepted it himself, but then a hysterical grandmother burst through his door begging him to come and there wasn't time to think it anymore.

The baby wasn't expected to live through the night, but after the rushed home baptism he held her close and prayed so hard that she would. He remembers her little head felt like a peach in his hand. He remembers the weeping mother and the stoic father, and how the grandmother pressed a church offering into one of his hands and a boiled egg in the other.

Nothing in his life has ever tasted as good as that egg.

***

The baby is one year old today, and Father Garupe spends a sunny quarter hour in the courtyard. It's taken all year to tame it so that the lavender gets enough light and the heartsease can breathe, but the roses have responded to his tending most of all. He clips a big handful of pink ones to bring to the birthday party and carefully strips off every thorn.

The family's home is filled with good smells and lots of people - the parents invite him to hold their daughter again but she's wild this time, and kicks his ribs so much he has to give her back. Her mother apologizes and claims she's so full of life because she so nearly slipped out of it.

Later, after all the food and music, the little girl grows accustomed to his presence and decides to sit quietly in his lap, but with the energy of a coiled spring. He examines the perfection of her tiny hand and finds himself overcome by the divine love that surrounds them all.

The grandmother brings out a basket covered in cloth when it's time to go. "Father, we want you to have this."

He doesn't know what's in it, but it's already far too much to fit alongside a vow of poverty. "Thank you, but I cannot."

"But Father, a year ago today, you..."

"God did that," he smiles gently. "Not me."

"Please take it anyway. We're all so fond of you. Please."

This could go on all night so he acquiesces and takes it home. Beneath the cloth is a slice of dark honeycomb on a china plate, a shiny braided bread, a bottle of port, and six eggs.

It heats his face to look at it, and he folds this near-obscene display it into his _Examen_ and prays over what to do with it all.

The only takeaway he receives is to use it for its intended purpose, so he carefully tears off a corner of bread and folds a pinch of honey into it.

It's luscious, and the spice on his tongue suggests that the bees did much of their work in a chestnut grove.

** BATH **

Guilt eats at him for still having the basket and china plate for days after the honey's gone. While the birthday itself had been temperate, the fields have had a thorough soak every day since and no one knows when it will stop.

One afternoon the rain lightens, and he makes the walk to return the basket and plate. The family welcomes him in, and it's good to see the roses are still upright and mostly pretty. He politely declines when they try to give him more things, saying that seeing the little girl's smile is more than enough.

The rain's a bit heavier when he leaves and soon pours down like a joke; the faster he walks, the higher the mud splatters up the column of black that covers him. He's even running at the end, whispering prayers to not slip and fall and it turns into laughter over the futile competition between him and the sky.

Inside, he peels off his clothes and a sweet thimble of port warms him as he heats up water.

The resulting bath is a luxury more outrageous than honey and ice cream at the same time.

  
**  
BOOK/CARDIGAN **

He mustn't hurt anyone's feelings, but his face burns like fire.

It's the most uncomfortable he's been in a long time.

"You don't like it. I knew it. He doesn't like it."

"But I do," he says. "Very much."

A few parishioners gave him a gift of a soft blue nightshirt sewn tall and broad, just for him. But to think of it...on his bare naked skin...it's far too personal. He reaches out for God but he's too flustered to formulate a plea, much less receive an answer of what to do. Did any one of them think of this? Is he sinning by thinking of it now?

Inês takes it out of his hands and it's a relief to have it gone. "It'll fit João, I'll give it to him. We'll give you something else, Father."

"No, please. There's no need to give me anything," he insists, but some weeks later he's given a soft wool cardigan that's perfect for the crisp autumn pinch in the air. Others learn of this and don't wish to be outdone, so they pool their coins and present him with a book of poetry. 

He loves them both dearly and often enjoys them at the same time, sometimes in his beloved courtyard when the weather's right.  
****

** ANGEL **

Being tucked at the hem of Serra da Estrela is high enough for light snow, and winter settles in like a quiet bride. He senses the faith of those around him strengthening. The same is true for him - the stark beauty of God's work outdoors overwhelms him most days, and he uses the long, quiet nights to read and contemplate his _discretio._ His bed even enters a new stage of cooperation with this body, and good sleep becomes as reliable as the Words, whether spoken or felt.

So when the nightmare comes, it shakes him for days.

He dreams of mouthless coughing and a liquid weight dragging him down. He can't breathe, and just as his skull's about to split in two he wakes with a gasp. The entire next day he feels upset and not quite himself.

After it happens a second night, he stays up late on the third to pray in the dark, begging for clarity but feels unheard.

Something's building. Not evil, but an unnerving force he cannot name. He prays so long his back aches from being tipped forward, and a string of tears flows warm and slow, like being bled.

A letter comes the next day and his heart lifts until he reads it. Trembling, he chokes on a sip of black tea and it kicks up into the back of his nose. He coughs hard enough to taste blood, and reads it again.

They want him to travel East. To Macau, and then they will discuss a journey much further.

Just as he's starting to feel rooted here. He thinks of those he loves so dearly. How will he ever tell them? And the nightmare, is it connected? Is it over there, waiting for him?

He will practice saying it aloud. Twice he dots a wet fingertip on the plaster wall and pretends it's the eyes of Carvalho, the farmer he has only a loose connection to. And still, he cannot say he's been called to leave with any confidence or grace. His voice breaks every time.

That night, he's pulled deep into a different dream. A glow shines outside his closed eyes and a hand brushes hair back from his face.

The wings are the last thing he notices about the angel. The first are his eyes, which are the cold green of a northern sea. There's nothing else cold about him, though - he carries a golden warmth and the scent of orangewood floats all around.

Father should be self-conscious that he's bare from the waist up but there is such comfort and safety here that he doesn't think of it of at all.

"I've seen my own death," he says quietly, and the angel lays a hand over his heart.

"How can that be? You're still alive."

"I've been called East."

"Yes, I know."

"I fear that's where my end lies. And nothing's written about my replacement here."

This is by far what troubles him the most: there will be at least two baptisms this spring. Deaths, who can say, but...for months before he came, they had to wait for Father Silva to travel over and it wasn't often enough. He'd heard the subtle complaints framed as gratitude for his presence now.

"I don't know what's abandoned if I stay, but I can't abandon these people if I go. The seven sacraments must be available to all His children at all times. They're far too precious to not be."

The angel says nothing.

"Could I...refuse?" he asks tentatively. The letter's a request, not quite a demand, but still. He's been called. By God, through a man of God, but is he not such a man himself, with just as much power? "God forgive me. I've had the most impudent thought just now, and I'm already so wicked. Look at all these possessions I'm too fond of."

"Francisco. You own one book and a bar of goat's milk soap."

He whispers, like a confession. "I also have a cardigan."

"Made of wool spun from fields that you've prayed for. Four grandchildren in those families received their first Eucharist from you, and you've a crop of new ones behind them. It's not a vain and empty possession. It's God's love manifest in your hands."

He blinks slowly, so tired. "I don't know what to do."

"His love for you is so immense, Francisco. Either direction is in His service. He loves you either way."

"But-"

"Hush."

The angel arranges his limbs around him and settles them both under his great golden wing. He's strong but soft, and when a crooked feather catches on the linens, he tugs it out and traces its tip over Father's forehead, eyelids, nose.

It feels so good, the tickles dancing across his face. "I'm not worthy."

"You are. You always will be." A sweet little cross brushes his forehead, then dips into the lines that carve out when he smiles. "And you shouldn't be afraid. When your time finally comes, I'll put my arms under yours and pull you up."

"When? How?"

"I don't know, and neither do you. But you won't be alone. God will be with you, as will I. Until then, you must serve with every corner of your heart and continue to see Him in all things."

"I will." With every day, every breath. He says a quick _Gloria Patri_ and feels some relief right away. "Will I see you again?" He swallows hard. "...before?"

The angel kisses his forehead. "Oh, yes."

The yellow light gradually lowers down to darkness, but Father can still feel the angel's body all around, protecting him.

***

In the morning, he stirs awakes but won't open his eyes. It had been so lovely, so real...

It's indulgent to grieve the impossible but he does it anyway, and sourness twists in his stomach when he remembers the letter. It'd been so clear what to do last night, but it's daylight now. He dreads stepping on the cold floor as much as writing his answer.

Eyes open and he finds that his overnight companion is still nearby, waiting for him to wake. He opens his mouth to speak but there aren't words for what he would say. The pale green eyes suggest there's no need.

_You know what to do, Francisco. In your heart, you know._

He reaches out, and their fingertips brush before his angel fades away.

When he finally gets out of bed, joy rushes though him to discover a warm little island on the floor where the angel had been, and it seems like there's a whisper of orange scent living in his cassock now.

It's true; he does know what to do. Prayer first. Find the means to write his response second.

Third, he straightens up his bed, and finds another gift to hold dear:

The golden feather left behind.


End file.
